A Rake's Midnight Kiss (21 page)

She regarded him warily. The word “pleasure” summoned heated memories of kissing him. “I don’t trust pleasure.”

His smile intensified. “You mean you don’t trust me.”

“That too.” She glanced around. “Where’s George?”

“At the stable I use for my carriage. They’ll keep an eye on him.”

“He loves horses.”

Mr. Evans shrugged. “He’s a good lad. I’d give him a job on my estate, but if he left Little Derrick, he’d break his mother’s heart.”

Startled, she stared at him, so astonished she didn’t notice when he took her arm and escorted her down the steps to busy Broad Street.

“I’d give him a place with Williams, but we can’t take on further staff right now.”

“Given Williams has extra duties with my horses, perhaps George could come outside school hours.” He paused. “I should have thought of it before.”

She appreciated that he didn’t point out that if she sold the Harmsworth Jewel, she could cram the vicarage with staff. “You’re being kind.”

Genevieve had a horrible suspicion that Mr. Evans
was
kind. In a self-effacing, untheatrical way that contrasted with his amiable languor and urbane charm.

After Magdalen College, the crowds thinned. She kept hold of his arm, although it was no longer strictly necessary. She even found, wicked girl she was, stolen excitement when his body brushed hers.

“Genevieve?”

Her name from his lips set up an enjoyable inner ripple. She’d given up insisting that he call her Miss Barrett. She was starting to feel silly addressing him as Mr. Evans.

“Shall we do that?”

From his tone, she guessed that it wasn’t the first time he’d asked the question. Curse her blushing. “Do what?”

She sought the familiar mockery, but his expression conveyed fondness. While a somnolent heaviness in his blue eyes acknowledged the anticipation simmering between them.

“If his mother agrees, I’ll pay George for a few hours each week under Williams’s supervision.”

Mrs. Garson would welcome the money and the chance of advancement for George. Genevieve couldn’t imagine her saying no. Even if she was inclined to refuse, when Mr. Evans stared at Mrs. Garson the way he currently stared at Genevieve, she’d happily sell her son to the Grand Turk. Yet again Genevieve warned herself to beware this man’s wiles. But here on this sunny street with his long stride matched to
hers and his deep voice shooting secret thrills through her, her barriers crumbled.

“That’s a good idea.”

“Capital.” He smiled. “That’s settled.”

It struck her that today produced yet another miracle. She’d managed a perfectly civil discussion with Mr. Evans about a matter of common concern without one whisper of hostility or innuendo.

Ahead the river sparkled. The velvet pelisse, suitable for an early departure, made her skin prickle with heat. She’d kill for a cup of tea. She supposed Mr. Evans meant to walk for miles. He’d packed a breakfast of rolls and cheese which they’d shared on the way—another sign of thoughtfulness; today abounded with them. That makeshift meal seemed a long time ago.

He drew her to a stop beneath a willow. She appreciated the shade and glanced around with interest. She loved Little Derrick, but it was exhilarating to visit this bustling town, packed with tradesmen and shoppers and students.

A man approached, carrying a large closed basket. “Here you are, Mr. Evans. Everything as ordered.”

“Thank you, Tait. I’ll have the punt back before sunset.”

The man stowed the weighty basket in the bow of a long wooden boat that Genevieve only now noticed moored nearby. “You’ve paid for the whole day. And a mighty fine day it is. I can’t think of a better way to pass it than on the river with a pretty lady.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Mr. Evans said.

“Miss.” The man touched his hat and turned to leave, whistling.

“Mr. Evans?” she said faintly. “What are you doing?”

He smiled as he placed her satchel and his cane near the basket. “We’re never alone in Little Derrick.”

“Which is a good thing.” She folded her arms across her bosom and regarded him with disfavor that felt, more than usual, manufactured.

“Do you think so?”

She studied him under the brim of her bonnet. She told herself he manipulated her again, but nothing stifled her quivering awareness. Much as she hated to acknowledge it, the need to be alone with him had tormented her too. Here in Oxford, nobody was likely to report them back to Little Derrick.

“You won’t take liberties?”

His lips curved into that cursed appealing smile. “If I get too energetic, the punt will capsize. You’re safe.”

Excitement and uncertainty warred inside her. If she went with him, would he kiss her? She had a horrible inkling that she’d feel disappointed if he didn’t. “On your honor?”

He crossed his heart. “On my honor.”

She stared at him, wondering why fate dictated that she, plainspoken, difficult Genevieve Barrett, got to spend an enchanted afternoon with this gorgeous specimen of masculinity. He met her gaze as if guessing her decision.

Of course he guessed. He saw her trepidation, but he also saw her sensual curiosity. Sensual curiosity won.

“Very well, Mr. Evans. You have a passenger.”

R
ichard refused to acknowledge quite how high his heart leaped when Genevieve agreed. He’d devised this scheme last night while he lay awake struggling against his yen to invade her virginal bed. Sleep had been a stranger since he’d kissed her and the added need for vigilance against intruders didn’t help.

He knew Oxford well. He and Cam had been students here. It was simple enough to arrange the boat and picnic basket. Tait had been a well-paid accomplice in Richard’s youthful adventures.

“You’ll be too warm in your coat.”

She unbuttoned the snug green velvet. “It was a gift from Lady Bellfield. I told her it was too extravagant for a mere vicar’s daughter, but I love it.”

Her uncertainty away from her books aroused a tenderness more unsettling than lust. “You’re more than a mere vicar’s daughter.” He damned the betraying huskiness in his voice. “You’re a beautiful, alluring woman.”

He waited for some spiky response, but to his surprise, she smiled with shy pleasure. “Thank you.”

He slid the coat from her shoulders. Beneath the spectacular pelisse, her dress was a becoming pale gold. She usually wore high necklines, suitable for a clergyman’s daughter, but this dress scooped across her lush breasts. It was obviously her best, a fact that touched him too—most women in his circle had so many clothes, they never singled out a “best” dress.

In a London ballroom, her modest décolletage would incite scarcely a murmur. Here alone with her, his reaction to that slope of white skin thundered through him like a thousand cannons firing together.

She watched as he placed the folded coat in the boat. Shrugging out of his own coat, Richard bent to lift the long wooden pole at his feet. He stepped onto the punt’s raised stern, automatically finding his balance.

When he helped Genevieve on board, her hand clung to his, the sun gleamed down, and the rest of the world receded. A warning clanged in his mind. His defenses, fortified through years of countering derision with a careless smile and an elegant shrug, fell dangerously low. Stifling his disquiet, he settled her in the prow against the satin cushions he’d had Tait buy new for today. The rich blues and reds reminded him of the Harmsworth Jewel.

His expertise with the punt swiftly returned. Genevieve removed her bonnet, one hand trailed in the water and a faint smile lifted the corners of her lips. Her legs stretched along the boat’s narrow base, permitting a glimpse of her fine ankles. Her blissful expression as she closed her eyes and raised her face toward the sun made him yearn as he’d never yearned before, even kissing her.

Perhaps he burned so hot because he’d tasted her passion. The need to kiss her again built like lava inside a volcano. He stared at the river, his gaze focused over her head. If he
kept watching her, God help him, he’d jump on her. And devil take the risk of the boat overturning.

“I’ve never been in a punt before.” She broke the increasingly taut silence. She studied the way her fingers made lines in the water. “It’s very pleasant.”

Despite his overheated state, he smiled. “You’re welcome.”

She glanced at him from the corner of her eyes. It was astonishingly seductive. He stifled a groan. “I wasn’t thanking you.”

“A pretty girl like you should have been on the river hundreds of times.”

She wiped her hand on her skirt. Briefly the material clung to the subtle curve of her belly and arousal stabbed him anew. Astonishing how even the most innocent movement fired him up. “I’m my father’s assistant. I have no time for dalliance, Mr. Evans.”

Hearing himself addressed as “Mr. Evans” rapidly palled. She’d call him Christopher before the day ended if it killed him. He crushed a longing to hear her call him Richard. Christopher Evans might wangle a chance at Miss Barrett’s charms. The hellish reality was that all of Richard Harmsworth’s lies exiled his true self from her favor forever.

“Your father mentioned young men who stayed as I have, to study. Surely one or two of those invited you on the river.” He ached to banish the wistful note in her smile.

Her voice was low, as if she confessed something shameful. “I rather terrified those young men.”

He only just stopped himself from commending that as a good thing. She needed a lover to match her, not some pimply stripling. “If they weren’t at least half in love with you, they weren’t fit to be called men.”

Her lips pursed to dismiss a compliment that she clearly considered extravagant. “Papa didn’t encourage his students to flirt.”

Hmm. More likely the old fox wanted his daughter concentrating on the scholarship that ensured his fame.

Richard easily located the loop in the Cherwell where as an undergraduate he’d brought many an eager girl. In the dozen or so years since, the willows over the water had thickened, lending the secluded nook greater privacy.

Which suited him perfectly.

He dug the pole into the riverbed and angled the boat through the graceful fronds. Sun penetrated in long golden beams and lit Genevieve as if she were onstage. He was always aware of her beauty—good God, he was in such a lather of desire, he was aware of everything about her—but in the soft light, she was breathtaking.

She sat up and glanced around with the wariness he’d hoped to extinguish with the leisurely boat ride. “Mr. Evans, this place reeks of rakish intentions.”

He didn’t blunt the wicked edge to his smile. “You’re such a clever girl. It’s dashed refreshing.”

She flattened her lips. “You said you wouldn’t take liberties.”

He shrugged. “I meant I wouldn’t ask for more than a kiss or two.”

“Christopher’s Dictionary?”

“Precisely.”

Instead of putting him in his place, she lounged against the cushions and regarded him with an unreadable expression. “I hope you’ll feed me first. I’d hate to swoon at a critical moment.”

A vibrating silence crashed down.

Her lips curved in a smug smile that he’d never seen before. “Cat got your tongue, Mr. Evans?”

He cleared his throat and struggled to speak. Where on earth was smooth-talking Richard Harmsworth? This
Christopher Evans was a deuced clumsy fellow. “If you swoon, it won’t be from lack of sustenance.”

A teasing light lit her silvery eyes. “I hope you live up to your promises.”

Heaven help him, he hoped he did too. Right now, kissing Genevieve seemed the most important task he’d ever undertake.

“Lunch?” she asked hopefully when it became clear that he was out of witty responses.

He straightened and laughed, feeling like the world’s luckiest man.

Mr. Evans’s confusion was delicious. With a heady mixture of excitement and nerves, Genevieve waited for him to take up her invitation. All day awareness had vibrated between them. Since she’d ceased open hostilities, she’d danced to a symphony of unspoken need.